


Leap to Action

by WichitaRed



Category: Alias Smith and Jones
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:47:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22866568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WichitaRed/pseuds/WichitaRed
Summary: Sent to scout the town of Kelton for a job, Wheat decides to reward himself with a drink. Instead, he and his pals become the late-night talk of legends.
Kudos: 2





	Leap to Action

Having completed his task of scouting the town, Wheat Carlson turned his sorrel pony around the corner of the Cave Saloon. Swinging down, he threw his reins over the hitching post, from across the seat of his saddle, he studied the street crowded with buckboards, riders, and quick-stepping men.

Then, pulling his hat, he knocked it against his chaps, billows of dust drifting from him. Setting it back on at an angle, he ran a hand down his bushy mustache and stepped up on the walk.

A sandy-haired man leaning back in a chair, its front two legs hovering in the air, grinned at him. “Howdy, you plannin’ on headin’ in there?” He asked, nodding his head toward the Cave’s gaping open front door.

“Summer travelin’ is dry business.”

“You ain’t lookin’ for company is you?”

Wheat shook his head, “got enough pals already.”

“That’s good,” the man grinned again, mischief ripe in his face, “they all ain’t known to be the best company.”

“Ain’t nothing to me, I just aim to get out of the sun for a spell.”

“Your choice.”

Wheat’s face scrunched at the man, and hitching up his holster belt, he stepped into the Cave Saloon.

The place was bigger than it appeared on the outside, a person might even call it a shotgun alley rather than a shotgun house, as the building went back so deep. There was a curtained stage at the rear, empty rows of chairs before it, and a good herd of tables from there to where Wheat stood letting his eyes adjust. The dozen or more souls manning the tables turned curious gazes his way. About mid-way down the bar, running one length of the place, a bartender leaned on its counter.

Stepping over, Wheat hitched a boot on the brass rail, “Mister, I’d like a drink of rye.”

The Bartender responded as if Wheat had not said one word.

“I’d like a drink of rye,” Wheat said, a bit louder, hearing movement, he twisted his head to peer behind him.

A couple of the saloon’s other patrons had shoved about, allowing themselves a better view, but none had done enough to set Wheat’s neck hairs to stand on end. Exhaling, he rapped a knuckle on the bar’s scarred surface, “Once more, I’d like a drink.”

The Bartender rolled his neck, and on straightening proved himself to be much like the saloon in that he was larger than he appeared at first glance. Strolling down, he spread his hands along the counter before Wheat and leaning out like dog against a chain, he snarled, “I cannot hear you, Stranger, cause I am not of a mind to get to know you.”

Wheat’s square jaw jutted forth, “What did you just say!?”

“You heard me, you damn saddle tramp, now get!”

Then Wheat did something that would become legend in the town of Kelton. Dryly saying, “Let’s get a bit more familiar,” he leaped forward, his calloused hand snagging the Bartender’s shirt front, and before the man knew it, he was jerked clean across the bar and was lying facedown on the sawdust-covered floor.

The Bartender sprung with a grunt, his left fist aimed at Wheat, stepping to the side Wheat nailed him with a quick, hard stabbing left that split the skin across his cheekbone sending him back to slam into the poker tables.

Cards, chips, whiskey shots, and men flew from the table. A lean, long-legged man rushed by Wheat and spun, grabbing his arms to hold him.

With a growl, Wheat raised a boot, raking a rowel spur down the man’s shin.

Yelping, the man fell back, ramming into another, the pair of them falling through the open door into the street.

In those few moments, the Bartender gained his feet, catching Wheat with a haymaker that knocked him to one knee. Rushing in, he kicked out.

Throwing himself back, Wheat watched the square leather toe brush past his shirt front. Rolling away, he scrambled up, only to once more bump into another patron wearing a loud, blue plaid shirt.

Plaid shirt’s fist doubled up, rearing back to slam Wheat, but ducking the blow and wrapping his arms about the man’s ribcage, Wheat slung him through the front door. 

That was when a blow hit Wheat splitting the inside of his cheek, blood spewing from his mouth, his hat rolling from his head, and the Bartender following up with two sharp jabs to his exposed ribs.

Wheezing for air, Wheat backed away, his legs tangling in his batwing chaps, he stumbled, just escaping the fist aimed for the soft of his neck.

With a roar to match the Bartender’s, Wheat leapt at the man. They fell to fighting toe-to-toe, their blows carrying them out onto the boardwalk before the Cave.

There were no niceties that rules would bring to a sanctioned ring fight, each man was out for blood. Only anytime, Wheat tried to step clear to grab a breath, one of the cheering swarming patrons of the Cave would punch and shove him back into play.

All about the Cave, folks had stopped to ogle, and when a group of riders came down the street, they did the same. 

Suddenly, Olly Joyce shouted, “Hells Bells, that’s Wheat they is all ganged up on.”

Kyle gulped, “That don’t seem quite fair at all.”

Even as he said this, the fighters rolled back inside the Cave, grunting shouts still being heard clearly out on the street.

“Bullshit!” was the only word that erupted from Lobo as he slammed his heels down, aiming his gelding for the boardwalk before the Cave.

Seeing him, the rest of the gang did the same. All except Heyes and Curry, who instead, took up a watchful guard position in the street, as the horses of five of their gang members leaped onto the boardwalk, in a bottleneck mess to plunge straight through the Cave’s wide-open door with Lobo leading the pack, his pistol firing flames into the dark interior.

Shifting in his saddle, Curry asked, “You think he scouted the town for the job, before he went in there?”

With a sigh, Heyes pushed his hat back on his head, “Doesn’t really matter, don’t think we’re going to be hanging about that long, and we sure won’t be returning to Kelton any time soon.”


End file.
